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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23797798">IV</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanni_scaramouche/pseuds/zanni_scaramouche'>zanni_scaramouche</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Vulgar [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>One Direction (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Betrayal, Character Study, Found Family, Gang Violence, Gun Violence, Harry &amp; Zayn siblings, M/M, Mafia Boss Harry Styles, Niall &amp; Harry friendship, Non-Graphic Smut, Not the happy kind, Past Perrie Edwards/Zayn Malik, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Harry Styles, The Character Death is NOT Larry, criminal activity, mentions of drug abuse, when it comes down to it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:15:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,833</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23797798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanni_scaramouche/pseuds/zanni_scaramouche</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he realises he’s fucked it's the fault of the corpse at his feet.</p><p>
  <i> Harry was molded to fill this role since childhood. Every waking day he puts on a puppet suit and plays the part, and plays it damn well. Some dancer is not a good enough reason to take it off. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>PART 2 - Reading Part 1 is highly advised for comprehension.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Vulgar [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1666684</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>IV</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Here we are, all together again! </p><p>I have been trying to work on my ~seven WIP's because I thought I should push out some variety but there's been zilch motivation or creative juices. Then I peek at the one (1) sentence I had on this thing and wrote the rest of it in one sitting. This AU just writes itself I swear! I spend two seconds thinking about it and I get all flushed and googly eyed. Again, I wrote all of this series quickly and without revision so I apologize for the mess-ups and general lack of flow.</p><p>Harry's POV and the flip side to this madness. </p><p>IF YOU LOVE ME YOU'LL READ PART ONE SO THIS MAKES SENSE </p><p>k thx</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time he realises he’s fucked there’s a corpse at his feet. Blood has seeped into the leather of his shoes, his silk shirt, his hair where he pushed it from his face. There are five dead bodies on the ground, but only one catches his attention. Four of the names are easy to predict, to the passing stranger it would be easy to detect the bonds he has with the men they belong to. What’s caught him off guard is the crudely carved ‘Louis’. The choking dread lodging itself in his throat is not from the grisly picture, it’s a result of acknowledging he’s not deeply connected to Louis. He hadn’t realised he wanted to be. </p><p>Simon prepared them well. The right contacts, the right methods, the right thoughts and within the hour this situation will disappear into nothing more than a secret swallowed by the night. It’s a dance he’s familiar with. He resents the bastard every waking day knowing he was groomed and worse yet, knowing there’s no way to step out of the puppet role he was designed to perform. Theirs was a relationship that quickly surpassed the fallacy of paternal into thinly veiled contempt for each other's personalities, only put aside for the necessary professional respect. </p><p>They finish dealing with the brunt of the mess in silence. Zayn keeps cutting glances like he’s waiting for Harry to acknowledge it, but he’ll be waiting a long time for a confession. So Harry had downplayed things when Zayn warned him of the ruckus he’d been dealing with, so Harry had turned a blind eye to the sloppy work instead of confronting the new coked up kids. So Harry had been wrong. Harry wasn’t Simon, and if Zayn thinks he could be doing better he should have stood up to the man when he’d had the fucking chance. They’ve had this conversation before. Infact, Harry’s pretty sure at this very moment they’re having it again with every passing glare.  </p><p>After the last body is pitched into the back of a truck with fake plates and serial number grinded off Liam retreats to the shadows with a phone to his ear, issuing orders for a proper cleaning crew to come by the back of the club and bleach the tiles of the pooling red. Harry got lucky with him. Knew the moment he took his hand he’d be holding on tight. </p><p>The choice Harry’s been presented with his newfound discovery is heavy on his mind. He runs his hands along his shirt and pinches the silk to wipe the tips of his fingers clean. Something blocks the taillight he’s been using to see, not that the red light had been particularly useful to begin with. Zayn’s silence is loud enough to warn Harry he’s not going to like what comes after it. He rarely does these days. </p><p>“You going to tell your ballerina about the list he’s on?”</p><p>“No.” The simplicity isn’t designed to annoy Zayn, but the slant of his chin says he thinks otherwise. </p><p>“Should I dig an extra hole to wait for him?” Harry scowls at his tone, already tired of listening. “You’re ludicrous not to tell him to duck when there’s a mark on his head.”</p><p>There are words poised to flatten Zayn’s arrogant energy sitting on Harry’s tongue. It’s something Zayn’s never understood since they were children. Harry’s never hesitated over a loss for words, he uses moments of silence to hold in words too sharp. Zayn knows each of Harry’s soft spots, no matter how well guarded Harry might try to keep them. The same is true in reverse. Harry himself had never fully understood the depth of love Zayn had held for a few precious moments, and in the end being aware of the target painted on her back hadn’t helped Perrie. Harry’s not cruel enough to say her name when there’s still blood on Zayn’s hands. </p><p>“Grimmy is securing contact. Despite your burning rage over the sad loss of these beautiful creatures, don’t retaliate.” It’s an order given in vain, but he says it simply for the future moment he will be able to reference the fact he said it. </p><p>Liam passes by to start up the car they’ll be taking and Harry peels away in time to march with him. The jacket he took off upon arriving still rests on the roof of the sleek car, now damp in the evening's chill, and he tosses it onto his seat to protect the leather. Before settling into it he straightens and looks at the stark outline of Zayn smoking against the old truck’s bumper, painted in red with bodies piled out of sight behind him. </p><p>“Oh, and Zayn,” He can’t see the dark rimmed eyes, doesn’t need to when he’s felt them on his back for as long as he has, “If you see a bullet coming your way, I suggest you duck.” </p><p>The car’s engine purrs to life. Harry slides into the passenger seat and doesn’t look in the mirror to watch his brother watching him. </p><p> </p><p>He’d been cocky in his parting with Zayn, but it quickly fades in the hum of the vehicle. He’s stoic in dismissing Liam. The first step into the cold night air on his tiled driveway brings back the vivid feeling of being punched in the gut he’d felt upon arriving at the club. The tiles are spotless. He can’t look at them without seeing Louis, pale and soaked in gore under the moonlight. By now the blood has irreparably damaged his shoes. With every step he feels the tackiness of it on his soles. </p><p>Somehow the unrepenting thoughts of Louis have found a way to manifest the man before Harry’s eyes. Pale and soaked in blue light. Caught off guard Harry spits a curse too loud for the stillness of his bedroom. </p><p>He’s fucked. Everything he’s ever been taught demands he drag the soft skinned body from his bed and forget his face. It’s not been that long, they’ve not been too involved, there’s no certainty he’s faithful. Harry’s paralyzed in the dark with a moment of consuming indecision. Drying blood is crusting on his skin in the cracks he couldn’t reach and sweat from the nights heavy lifting starting to itch under clothes not made to breathe. All he can focus on is the soft strand of hair curling on Louis’ temple. </p><p>He makes a decision.</p><p>Harry empties his pockets onto the side table and turns to the washroom with steps as light as he can make them. Under the stream of warm water he thinks through the myriad of outcomes his choice has, informing himself of every intricate way in which he is being selfish by leaving the man in his bed. He’ll allow himself this so long as he’s aware exactly how foolish he’s being. Already it feels too late to take it back, he’s starting to doubt there was ever a choice to be made but rather a struggle against the inevitable. His limbs are thrumming with impatience and yet he forces himself to clean every crease of his fingernails until they are spotless. </p><p>The long brush stroke of Louis' spine lays bare to the room, the tempting expanse of his skin too much for Harry to be slow in his journey to feel it against his own. He kneels onto the bed and cages the smaller man below him in a swift press, his water warmed skin shocked by the cool touch of Louis exposed back. Urgently Harry presses his mouth into Louis’ neck just to feel the pulse singing between his teeth. It’s not reassurance he seeks, he tells himself, but when Louis presses into him a surge of relief tightens his hands around Louis’ slim waist and his teeth sink deeper. He turns Louis over, the addicting glide of their skin keeping him close, and finally he’s granted blue eyes heavy with sleep and desire. </p><p>He needs to see Louis feel it, this greed in his veins driving Harry into dangerous stupidity. Slowly he takes Louis apart, savours the desperate sounds and frustrated tears. He’s being a bit cruel when he drags it out, but Harry deserves to witness the desperation clawing inside his own chest mirrored in Louis’ eyes. As Louis’ nails bite into him and his pleas start to fall apart into whimpers Harry pushes him over and follows quickly. Indulgently he watches where his own release marks the other man with proof of what they’ve done, what Louis lets him take. </p><p>When Louis returns from the washroom and slips into the bed, returns like Harry insists he knew he would, Harry folds around him. There’s not yet a grand connection tying the two of them together beyond the moments of heated skin and carnal behaviour, but he wants there to be. </p><p>He’s fucked. </p><p> </p><p>The problem is. Well the problem is Harry doesn’t do connections that don’t start in blood. He and Zayn don’t share what runs in their veins, but they’ve spilled enough in each other's names to make up for it. When Liam carried him several miles the day they met Harry’s blood had drenched him so thoroughly it seeped into his pores. Due to a miscommunication on the playground and a finger pointed two inches too far to the left Niall had Harry’s blood on his knuckles from a well placed punch to the face. They’d sorted it out waiting in the head office, legs kicking idly in chairs too tall for their feet to touch the ground. </p><p>So it can’t be too surprising that the moment things move forward with Louis there’s blood beading on his split lip. It’s also the moment Harry is uncomfortably faced with the realisation that time is narrowing down the paths his decision will take them down. The marks on Louis' skin Harry didn’t make are glaring consequences he knew to expect, but that doesn’t mean he finds them any less infuriating. </p><p>It’s maddening to hear how little Louis’ thought of him, especially when the only person he has to blame is himself. He chose Louis specifically, knowing he wouldn’t look too deep. Harry’s spent too much time thinking about his own choices, his own wants, and too much time convincing himself he saw something of the same fire in Louis. Every inch Louis lets him take is gratifying, but the way he’s so quick to curse Harry’s name reminds him how much of a stranger they remain to each other. </p><p>What he does know about Louis is the frustrated man on the couch is vividly real, as real as the coy pixie that saunters through the halls and the restless smoker outside the back door with little patience for small talk. All of these different sides to Louis invict the same feeling in Harry’s gut, a violent hunger to lay claim and perversely show off. He does so now with a hand twisted in matted wet strands on the back of Louis' neck, satisfaction rolling through him knowing his palm heats the spot still bearing the mark of his teeth. Louis is limp in his hold, curling into him in a way Harry’s only witnessed between the sheets. Louis’ demand to be taken home is redundant. Harry wouldn’t have let go of him under gunpoint. </p><p> </p><p>It’s quite alarming to have Louis living in his house. Rather, it’s alarming how coming home to find Louis tucked into his bed is immediately the most calming moment of the day. The world is spinning off course around him, the messes left by Hemming’s lackies growing at a pace he struggles to keep out of public or police view, Zayn is lashing out at anyone who breathes within eyesight, and Liam is saved by a trip off the curb from walking into a bullet. Every day holds it’s own morbid surprise. Every night, dependable as clockwork, there’s warmth on the other side of the bed. </p><p>He lays in stony silence watching the light dance on the wall, ignoring the urge to pull Louis across the sheets and take. The time for him to make the choice has passed, now it’s up to Louis to make his own. Especially when every day it’s becoming more likely things will end with one of them in the ground. When Louis’ hand curls around his stomach after two of the longest weeks of his life, Harry has to work to keep his breathing steady. The flame he’d kept at bay flares into a roaring inferno. </p><p>He makes Louis work for it, wants to see him chase Harry over and over. And it’s exactly what he wanted, but the moment Louis’ eyes meet his the intrusive vision of finding them vacant flickers into Harry’s mind and chills the marrow of his bones. He’s up and out of the bed as quickly as possibly, unable to stop the tremors in his hands. On muscle memory he dappens a cloth. He’s starting to understand Zayn in ways he never wanted to.</p><p>Louis pries it out of him, makes him reveal some of the weight he’s been carrying. It’s been a long time since Harry’s worn a vulnerable face. He’s got no idea what it looks like, but Louis must have it mesmerized because he won't look away. In the pool’s blue light his eyes glow bright and alive. Not until sleep drags Louis’ lids shut does Harry dare to blink. </p><p> </p><p>He’s not surprised when Nathan calls him with the news, just sad. It’s an unavoidable fact whoever tried to get to Louis first would be the leak, Harry's made sure he was easy to find for that reason. Liam is silent with the news. Harry’s not able to wait for the cleanup of a particularly nasty scene, now an obvious means of distraction, before he swipes the car keys. </p><p>He’s too soft. Simon never stopped telling him, and Harry hears it now, ringing in his cruel voice throughout the years. He wants to look his friend in the face and hear him out, wants to reason with him, wants to pretend there’s something that will soothe the sting of betrayal. It’s in this state of denial that he’s foolish enough not to turn Louis away at the back door. </p><p>The brick corridor to the office is the same as it’s always been and leads to a sight he could draw blind. To see Niall running the club was to see a lion lounging amongst his pride. So amiable it was impossible to picture him anywhere else but surrounded by people. Harry could have let him go on scholarship, could have patted his friend on the back and let him go onto a life unknown. But how could he have? Zayn was a brother of circumstance, Niall had been a brother Harry chose. </p><p>Harry avoids looking at him behind the desk, unsure of his control when Louis’ still in the room and unaware of who he’s sharing smiles with. A text comes through as Louis leaves a step behind Niall, a message from Zayn that Harry purposefully keeps his eyes from focusing on before swiping away. Dreading the coming hour he stands from the couch and adjusts his suit while taking measured steps. </p><p>He leans against the wall by the door. Thinks of every moment he’s spent in this room with the three men he considered family. Niall always laughed the loudest. He’d seemed so settled here, satisfied with this life in the shadows, and Harry had spent so long resenting his own growing responsibilities it hadn’t crossed his mind that Niall might have wanted more. So Harry had been wrong. Nothing new.</p><p>Niall walks past him with two glasses in hand. He takes the time to line them up with the other two on the desk, his back almost obscenely vulnerable. Harry knocks his head against the wall, unable to take the moment he’s purposefully been given. The glasses fill slowly in the silent room until they sit in an innocuous replica of opening day. Niall scrubs a hand through his hair and finally turns to sit in the chair, propping an elbow on the arm rest and his chin cradled in his palm. </p><p>For a moment their eyes meet, two men in a room with four glasses and eleven years between them. Niall’s eyes are red, his hands keep moving from his face to his hair, his foot tapping to a staccato beat. He looks like the school boy Harry used to know, easily anxious and teased for being quick to cry. He looks like the man Harry thought he knew. </p><p>“Waiting on you, H.” </p><p>Harry aims at the wall behind Niall’s head and fires. Niall flinches at the crack of sound. Once he’s realised the bullet missed he rubs his palms over his face with a shaking breath while Harry watches like a statue from the other side of the room. </p><p>“Your turn.”</p><p>Niall grimaces, face paling with a meek shake of his head. “I’m not gonna shoot you.”</p><p>“Prefer to use your fist?” </p><p>Finally Harry feels it. An undeniable rush of hate. All he can see is two boys joking around in matching uniforms and he hates himself for bringing them both here, to this room, and turning them into these men. </p><p>Niall looks at him imploringly. “I’m serious, H. If you don’t do it they will.”</p><p>“They’re on the way.” Harry says the words as he thinks them. </p><p>He hadn’t considered outsiders showing up, making things messy when the real issue, the only one he wants to deal with right now, is sitting in front of him. </p><p>A gunshot shocks Harry into glancing at the open door beside him. They were already here. Louis. </p><p>“God almighty,” Niall’s got pure misery on his face now, but Harry doesn’t believe it. He’s stuck replaying the sound over in his head, begging himself to consider it was anything but the consequence of his decisions. He watches Niall sink one of the drinks with a jerk of his head and rub at his eyes. “Deserve it now, don’t I?” </p><p>Shooting him is too easy. Harry needs answers, and once he’s pried them from Niall he’s burning Hemming’s crew to the ashes. With the hand not holding the gun he pulls his hair out of his face. The steel is warming in his palm, feeling more like an extension of his arm with every passing second. </p><p>He’s about to start in when Liam shoulders out of breath through the door, “Zayn’s handling some unwanted company.”</p><p>“Louis?” It’s the only thing he cares to know. </p><p>Zayn enters in time to answer, “Peachy.”</p><p>It's more altering than one word has any right to be, stumbling Harry back into apprehension. Liam’s the first to see the glasses on the desk, and Harry feels the recognition come over him. Zayn’s attention is only a moment behind. Niall shoves himself out of the seat looking ill. </p><p>“Christ,” he pulls on the bleached ends of his hair, “I fucked up, lads! I started using his shit, next t’ing he’s hammering me to start selling on the floor. It’d never happen with you owning the place, H. We was talking stupid amounts of cash, okay? I was high and things went tits up, so for the love of fuck, someone shoot me because I can not keep looking at you.” </p><p>“Don’t.” Harry raises his voice and hand at Zayn before he manages to get his gun aimed. His eyes don’t waver from Niall’s, even when he hears someone else approach the doorway. They’re all lucky Liam is smart enough to have a silencer on, the shots loud but far from deafening beside him. The knocked crystal shattering on the floor, however, is an ear-splitting shock. Harry instinctively shields his eyes from flying shards and misses the moment Niall pulls out his own gun. </p><p>“Enough, Niall.” </p><p>“You crazy fucks, I’m done. I can’t play these stupid games like you, can’t make you trust me again. I can’t fix it!”  Harry studies him, the ruddy face of a nine year old boy profusely apologizing for punching the wrong person. </p><p>“Harry,” Zayn curses, but his focus in on the gun in Niall’s hand and not the man it belongs to. </p><p>“No one is shooting him.” He roars. How did they get here? How did Harry let this happen?</p><p>Niall’s desperate though, and desperate men are unpredictable. The glint in his eyes is the only warning the moment he lifts his gun and points it at Harry. </p><p>It’s the loudest second of Harry’s life as two guns fire near in sync. The impact of a body thrown into him hits his chest and he’s forced to his knees with momentum. The ringing in his ears is so incessant he feels like he’s entered a waking dream. Zayn’s hair brushes his face, he’s cradled against Harry’s chest and slumped half in his chest. Harry looks down to see a dark patch blooming on his brother’s stomach. Liam’s there with quick hands making sure Harry’s pressing down hard enough on the wound. His mouth is moving but Harry shakes his head at the muffled nonsense, still waiting out the ringing in his ears. </p><p>It’s oddly peaceful without the noise of the world. His chest expands slowly with a deep breath. Over Liam’s shoulder he sees the brogues Niall’d been polishing three weeks ago. Traces of it’s persistent scent still lingers. </p><p>Sound comes back to him in the way of Zayn’s laboured breathing and Liam’s steady voice as he speaks on the phone to James. Louis’ appeared on the couch, having come in while Harry had been drifting. The moment to breathe is over. He pulls his puppet suit back on and starts running a list of the things he immediately needs to handle. Liam works with him, Zayn pissily chiming in while bleeding on Harry’s white suit until James finally arrives to stabilize him.</p><p>He and Liam continue to progress through the list. Harry does so without looking at anything other than his hands and isn’t prepared for the moment Liam slips something into them. A phone with a cracked screen, it lights up with a photo of four smiling boys. Harry blinks once. Hands it back. </p><p>“Wipe it.”</p><p>Finally the clean up crew arrive and he’s spent as long as possible not looking at Louis. Now he scans him with impartial eyes, catalogs every detail methodically to judge if he should have James check on him next.</p><p>“Lou.”</p><p>Blue eyes squint open, slow to adjust to the closeness of Harry’s face. Then he’s got an armful of the man. There will be time to breathe again when the mess is cleared and the night obscures the truth into myth. Still, he can feel the mask he wears slip as Louis curses him with a shake in his voice. Harry’s hold is too tight to be comfortable, but Louis only presses closer.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Give me pointed repetition or give me death (... or both? yikes sorry)  Have you ever cried while alluding to smut? Is that even a thing? I just get so emotional when I think of this Harry, he’s so complex behind the scenes! What is wrong with me and my life decisions jfc how did I get here…. </p><p>Anyone watch Niall’s InstaLive on what was supposed to be his first night of tour? God almighty, that boy was sad. Really helped inspire this actually. Poor lad.</p><p> </p><p>Find me and graphics for all of my stories on tumbler! <br/>https://zanniscaramouche.tumblr.com/tagged/v</p><p> </p><p>Would love to hear from you &lt;3 &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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